


More than Enough

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Characters of Ambiguous gender, F/M, Gen, Ice-cold Thranduil, M/M, Possibly Asexual Character, Unrequited Love, possibly aromantic character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks in, and every eye in the room is drawn to him. He charms anyone, easily, with words, gestures, touches.</p>
<p>But he talks to only one.</p>
<p>And that might have to be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Snow_Glows_Blue!
> 
> Another modern Aglarcu. This one didn't go as i expected, but i hope you like it anyway.....
> 
>  
> 
> .

First time I see him, it’s the hair I notice.

Well, you do, bright red hair like that. Most of us in this line of work, we like to look as tough as we can, and that means – next to no hair, sunglasses, suits.

Then there’s him, this amazing flash of red – tied back, very smart, pulled into the tightest ponytail I’ve ever seen. 

Sunglasses – only he takes them off when I introduce myself, uses them to gesture with as we’re speaking. Dark eyes, compassionate eyes. Eyes you could drown in, were you that way inclined – and I’m glad I’m not. That would be decidedly unprofessional.

The suit is pretty standard.

Only maybe – better cut. Or perhaps he just wears it with more swagger than most.

Still, that time, it’s just business.

The usual run through – and he’s smart, he’s on top of his team – and by the way he smiles and nods at the end, he thinks the same of me.

“Be a pleasure working with you,” he says, “too often hotel security don’t like us coming in, but T – he insists on his own people round him, doing it the way he knows.”

I smile back, 

“So long as it all runs smoothly,” I tell him, “you know your lines, I know mine. Keep it simple, keep control and there’s no need for any situation to develop.”

And I can’t help wonder who’d be stupid enough to cause trouble for that amount of money. His client, T, as he calls him – he could buy and sell this street ten times over, even at today’s prices. 

You wouldn’t want him buying out your employer just to give himself the pleasure of making you redundant.

 

 

 

Next time – and it seems we’re the chosen favourite for London visits now – he recognises me, and I admit I’m flattered. Because, let’s be honest, I’m not that memorable, but he walks in, and,

“ ’Larc,” he says, “good to see you, look forward to working with you again. Same procedure as before I think, I’m just doing a quick walk-round now, you’ll know T’s not expected for a while.”

The walk-round doesn’t take long, and I think he’ll be off, but he looks at his watch,

“Ah, sod it,” he says, “I’ll be on late tonight, he’s the boys coming, as we discussed, and that’s rarely an easy evening. Any chance of you organising me something to eat – join me?”

For a moment I hesitate, but – oh, why not? Not often I get the chance for a bit of – well, it isn’t flirting, but it’s maybe not so far off as all that.

We eat, and he makes me laugh, makes me envious of all he’s done, seen, all his stories.

It’ll be a while before I realise he polishes up the anecdotes, brings them out time after time, has his lines, his little tricks to show himself in the best light.

Be a while before I realise he’s like it with everyone, can’t help himself. 

It’s maybe his tenth visit, before I realise – with most of them, he doesn’t just charm, flirt, play, he takes it further. First time I see him duck into a store-cupboard with one of the chefs – I assume it’s a torrid, passionate affair.

Then I see him do the same – same cupboard even – with a receptionist.

Couple of days later, I find my office door jammed – and for a moment I’m close to panic, running through situations in my head – before I realise. The noises from inside aren’t the sort that terrorists would be making.

At least, I don’t think so.

Besides, I recognise his voice.

I wait opposite the door, and look away when one of the cleaners leaves – no point making the embarrassment for both of us worse than it is already – but I go straight on in. I’m angry.

“My office – “ I start, and I’m not quite sure what I’m going on to say – is not a bloody knocking-shop so don’t treat it as one – probably, I’m that angry, but he smiles, and,

“I know, I know – ‘Larc, I’m sorry – I should have asked – but you were busy, and well – we’re friends, aren’t we? I’d thought we were. Be a lot easier if you just give me a key, save the back of your chair – wedging the door shut hasn’t done it any good,” and he winks as he adjusts his tie.

Somehow, I find myself handing over a spare.

 

 

 

I watch his progress with – fascination, I suppose.

Every day, though not quite every hour – another conquest.

Except, to be fair, it isn’t quite like that. He doesn’t seem to see it as a victory – or rather, it’s a victory for both parties, a moment of ecstasy snatched from the tedium of a working day.

Part of me wonders how he has the energy, until I realise the pursuit, the success is what energises him.

He’s still friendly, and I push away the part of me that wonders why he doesn’t approach me like that. It would hardly be professional, I tell myself, ignoring the numerous other unprofessional liaisons he flaunts under my nose.

Time goes on, a week here, a month there, and soon – it has been nearly five years I have known him, watched him, five years of him screwing everyone in sight – except me.

One night, I leave my office, must be getting on for three in the morning, I’m tired, it’s been a long day and I’ll need to be back here by nine, but – he’s sat in the night-lounge, a bottle in front of him, and he looks – worn.

It occurs to me to wonder just how old he is.

“Caradhil?” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, crouching at his side, “Caradhil? Are you – well?”

For a moment, he doesn’t realise it’s me – he blinks, flicks his hair, brings out the smile, the charm – then he relaxes,

“Oh, it’s you, ‘Larc,” he says, and the smile changes, “sorry. Tired.”

I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself.

I sit down, pull my chair close, and then put my hand back on him. He’s beautiful, even I can see that, and I like him, and – and he feels warm under me. Is that enough?

I don’t know.

But if not now, if not with him – then when? With who?

“No bed-warmer tonight?” I ask, and it isn’t what I meant to say, or how I meant to say it, but that’s the words that come.

He blinks, surprised again, and rubs his nose, rueful,

“No – never in bed. Can’t risk it – he wouldn’t approve – T,” he explains, seeing my confusion, “he doesn’t approve of me being off-duty.”

I’m appalled.

So – all these hurried – moments – that’s the nearest he ever gets to what most people seem to think is so important?

No employer is worth that.

That’s no way to live.

I’ve no relationship – I don’t want one, not in the way that most do – but – I can walk away from work, do other things, see friends, have a life of my own.

I shake my head, wanting to say some of that – wondering just what he’s paid that makes it worth it – when he looks at me.

“I don’t mind,” he says, shrugging, “I faced it years ago. I’d do more than that for him,” and our eyes meet for a long moment. 

Oh.

I had no idea. All these years – I never saw anything pass between them more than employer to bodyguard. Trusted bodyguard, yes, long-term employer, the kind of not-quite-friendship that you get sometimes, but still. I had no idea.

Then I understand.

T probably doesn’t know – and from what I’ve seen of him, he wouldn’t care if he did. 

What a way to live.

And people would say I am the odd one, if they knew us both. You poor bastard, I think, trying not to let it show in my face.

“Stay and chat a bit,” he says, and for all that I shouldn’t, should get home and sleep, should tell him to do the same, for all that I want to ask questions, rage at his unreasonable boss – I find myself just sitting and chatting. Not about anything much, just mild, easy talk, celebrity gossip, football, weather – that sort of thing. Sort of thing I could talk about with anyone, at any time of day, but somehow, talking it over with him, at this hour, in the quietness of a sleeping hotel – it’s better than anything else.

Too late to bother going home by the time he is finally nodding over his glass.

“Come on,” I say, “time you were off to your room – you do have a room?” although I know he does, and I know where it is; which is, it turns out, more than he does.

I walk him up there, but even then, I can’t bring myself to leave him – he isn’t capable – so I help him undress, into bed.

For a moment, I’m tempted to stay – stay and curl up together, take comfort – enjoy the warmth of him. Maybe, maybe when he wakes – find out what exactly it is that I’ve been missing all these years.

Then I remember – T doesn’t like him to have anyone in the bed.

So I don’t.

I go.

 

 

 

I don’t see him the next day, which is perhaps just as well really, and the morning after T is leaving, entourage tagging behind.

I find Caradhil in my office when I get back after sorting out a problem with one of the car-park cameras – he’s not doing anything, just – standing there. He looks round as I come in, smiles, looks away, stares down at his outstretched hands,

“I owe you an apology – for the other night,” he starts, and then, before I can dismiss it as something any friend would do, “thank you – for not taking me up on it. I was drunk – you know how it is – sometimes – it all becomes a bit too much,” he shrugs, and wordless, I understand that the chance was not just in my head, it was there for the taking, and I was too slow, regretting, but he carries on, “stupid really. Nothing changes, nothing ever will, that’s how it is, how it always will be. But thank you. It – it would never do, and – I’d hate to lose this base.”

I nod, knowing it is my turn to speak, searching for some response, finding only,

“I don’t – you wouldn’t lose this – whatever happened,” not knowing how to say – but why? Why would it not – do? 

He looks at me, for the first time since I entered the room, and again, I don’t know what he thinks he sees in my face. Two quick paces, and he is at my side, his hands on my shoulders, forehead pressed against mine,

“Oh gods, Aglarcu, I didn’t – you deserve so much more – if it was possible to change things – but – “ he falls silent, and then his mouth is against mine, his hands slipping easily up into my hair, and – it seems to go on forever and yet not long enough to begin to make sense of it before he is pulling away, and, “forgive me. It just – won’t do.”

I suppose I am hopelessly incompetent. Such kissing is not something I have ever bothered to try before, having had neither reason nor desire.

But I would have thought – I am not usually slow to learn – it cannot be that difficult to please someone, if you truly want to – as for the first time, I have thought perhaps I did.

He touches my face gently, and then walks to the door. With hand on it, he says, looking back to where I stand, my hand touching the unseen imprint of his on my neck,

“It would mean too much. To me too, if that’s any comfort.”

And he leaves.

 

 

 

 

We never speak of any of it again.

What is there to say?

But now that I know, I see a certain – something – in his eyes when he watches T, a slight glow to him when T is content, a sheen when T is impressed – and it makes no sense to me. 

Just as, I know, it makes no sense to him that I have never any – what he refers to as ‘pub tales’ – to share. That I continue to live alone, to be content that way.

At first, at first I sense an unease in him, a fear that perhaps I would ask something he does not have to give, and it takes all my courage not to avoid him, not to run away from this awkwardness between us. I do not, simply because – if I must face him for work, learn to overcome my natural reserve there, I will not lose the pleasure of his company in quiet times. His company is still a pleasure to me, he makes me laugh, we talk easily enough when once we begin.

By the third time, I find I do not even feel a longing, a curiosity, when I see him touch another, find a door unexpectedly locked and later see him and another closing it behind them as they walk away, that sheen on them, that extra depth to their smiles. Why would I?

In the end, that is not what I want from him, it never was – not really – not like that – though had he desired it, I daresay I could have learnt to at least pretend enjoyment. 

We are friends, and we talk.

He talks – when we are alone, and he has drunk a little too well – he talks of T, of years past, of the years to come. There is anger at those who have crossed him, and yet – he is himself no fool, even in this, he sees the mistakes made, the pride too long clung to, the stubbornness that has won and lost so much. Were I so minded, I daresay I could make a fortune from his revelations.

That I do not, would not, is perhaps the reason I hear them.

 

 

 

 

Comes a day when the night manager hands me a copy of the morning paper as I am about to leave for home.

“You might be interested,” she says, “look – there, page nine, I almost missed it – that T – him as stays here when he’s in town – attempt on his life, out there in the East. That’s where his father died, you know, long time back – he’ll have been out there carrying on unfinished business I shouldn’t wonder.”

I skim over the article; sparse as it is, it adds little to her words. An attempt, foiled, suspect not apprehended, police baffled.

The sort of thing, one is given to understand, that happens all too often in that part of the world.

I note to myself to mention it to Caradhil, next time they are in town, and forget it, going about the business of my life as one does.

 

 

 

 

Things go on, as they do, and it is nearly five months since the article when I am called over to the desk as I pass reception.

“ ‘Larc,” Marie calls, and turns to me, “Gary here is wanting a walk-round – T is in town again.”

I blink, surprised – I know Gary, he has been here often enough. 

“Organ-grinder, not just one of the monkeys now,” he says, and gives a shrug, “mind, I’d rather be a monkey forever than what happened.”

We must both look blank, and he frowns, bites his lip,

“Oh shit. You – I thought you’d’ve heard. ‘Specially you, ‘Larc, way you two were. Caradhil – he’s gone. Almost half a year back – out East – did you not see it?”

I understand, and at some place in the back of my mind I am not surprised, I think I always knew it could only end this way.

Attempt foiled.

They never mentioned the cost.

I swallow, because somehow even in this line of work, you don’t expect it to be talked of so very bluntly, and manage,

“Not the details, no. Was it – quick?”

Gary nods, and then I see the expression on Marie’s face, eager, intrigued, and I turn to other things, to the matter in hand, the next few days.

It is not mentioned again, and Gary – Gary is a pleasant chap to work with.

At the end of their stay, Gary comes to my office,

“I’m sorry,” he says, and for a moment I wonder why, what now, then, “it never occurred to us you wouldn’t have heard. I thought – we all thought – you and him – well, I know how he was, but – he valued you a lot, as a friend. We thought maybe more than that, one day, every time we came back here we’d have bets on,” he flushes, realises this is hardly the thing to say, “sorry. But he used to talk to you like he talked to no-one else.”

I shrug,

“Working colleagues,” I say, and then, feeling as though I have betrayed something, add, “more. Friends. But no, I had not heard. I should have guessed, I suppose, when I saw the write-up of the attempt on T.”

He half-laughs,

“Yes. That’s about the way of it. Professional pride and all that – he wouldn’t have let anything like that happen on his watch if he could have prevented it – well, he did, in the end, prevented anything more happening. Anyway. I just wanted – I’m sorry you found out like that.”

He is awkward, longing to have this over I can see, so I say something, anything, to accept his apology, make light of that awful heart-stopping moment of public exposure, of churning grief and pain. Gary pauses as he leaves the room, and for a moment I remember another pause, a painful farewell, but instead he says,

“You were the best friend he had – all over we go, and there wasn’t anyone else he talked to like he did with you. We all miss him, he was a good bloke to work with, for. But we weren’t friends – all of us always knew that, he kept his distance. Only with you, he used to let the guard down. You were good for him.”

He ducks his head a little, and is gone, embarrassed by such sentiment I suppose, before I can find an answer.

I sit staring at my screen for a long time, not hearing the phone, not seeing the messages that come.

He was my friend also.

Nothing more, and there never would have been – for him, because his heart was already given, for me – because I have nothing more in me.

And yet – perhaps – is there anything truly worth more than friendship?

I don’t know.

That I was his friend – that he let his guard down with me – talked to me more than to any other – it means a lot.

Somehow, despite the pain, the loss, it is oddly satisfying.

We mattered to each other.

Just good friends, maybe – but I wonder just how much his beloved T even noticed the changeover or questioned the sacrifice.

And remind myself not to be bitter. He chose that life – there was never one like Caradhil for knowing exactly what he wanted, and if my friendship was part of that – I should be flattered. To be his friend was more than good enough for me.

For all that, it seems to me that the rest of my life will now be very – empty.


End file.
